Gary Cutler is a gray-haired, gray-bearded man from the town in Connecticut where I live. His silver-rimmed glasses give him a vaguely patrician air that dissipates when he starts talking, something he does with a distinctly unpatrician openness and lack of pretense. I’m new to Connecticut, and Gary is always giving me advice: where to find the best Italian food in town, which houses display the most elaborate collections of ersatz ghosts at Halloween, where to take my wife for a romantic weekend. He’s trying to get me to take up kayaking. He asks about my 2-year-old son and wants to know what costume he wore for Halloween. Gary told me yesterday I should visit a certain German beer garden in New Britain the next time I want to have a few drinks with friends. When I see him in the morning, he asks me how I slept. When I see him in the afternoon, he asks me what I’m having for dinner.